


Sentimentality

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for 5.02, “The Price.”</p>
<p>He’s no memory of the keepsake, but he knows himself well enough to be sure that there’s only one reason, only one person for whom he would have kept such a remembrance.</p>
<p>Emma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimentality

“Careful where you put those hands, boy, or you’ll be sewing your guts back into your own belly.”

“ _Hook_ ,” David snaps, but Killian ignores him, watching in grim satisfaction as the color drains from the face of the tailor’s mate crouched at his feet.  One hand is still perilously close to Killian’s inner thigh, but the tremor that’s seized hold of that hand is making the tape measure it clutches flutter like a pennant in a storm.

The boy’s master rises from his place at David’s feet, giving Killian a withering look, and gathers the boy up by the shoulders.  He turns the boy toward the door, but Killian drops his hook over the man’s shoulder, drawing both master and apprentice to a halt.

“Apologies, lad,” he says, his voice gruff with the strain of reining in his misplaced impatience.  The boy gives him a jerky nod over his shoulder, then fair flees from the chamber, the tailor pulling the door shut behind them–though not without a last baleful glance at Killian.

“You do have a way of making friends,” Robin says mildly from his seat by the window.  "No wonder Will always speaks so highly of you.“

"I still think this ball is a bloody waste of time,” Killian snarls, beginning to pace.  He burns with the need to act, to plan, even to research– _anything_ more useful than this, than preparing for a sodding _party_.

From the corner of his eye, he sees David cross his arms.  "It’s one night, and it seems to mean a lot to Arthur and his court,“ he says, with an exaggerated patience that would have Killian throwing him a mocking smirk, were he more in the mood for a verbal joust with the prince.  "We’re not exactly drowning in resources here, so it’s probably in our best interest to stay on their good side.”  He plants himself in Killian’s path, bringing him to a forcible halt.  "Which we _won’t_ do by terrorizing the servants.“

"Aye,”  Killian mutters, and scrubs his hand over his face.  "I’d just prefer to actually be _doing something_.“

"We are.  We’re securing our position with our hosts–the only ones who _really_ know anything about Merlin and this prophecy of his.”  He lays a hand on Killian’s shoulder, giving him a comradely shake.  "Besides, it might do Emma some good to take her mind off of…"  A shadow passes over his face.  "… Everything.“

The idea that a diversion might benefit Emma, might help steer her away from the darkness now cloaking her soul is a compelling point.  But it’s the moment of worry in David’s eyes that truly makes him reconsider–that lets him know that he’s not alone at sea in his concern for the battle Emma wages to keep hold of herself.

Killian heaves a sigh, forcing down the agitation that’s been driving him so far from his manners.  ”‘Do it for Emma,’ eh, mate?“ he says, canting his head to stare at the prince.  "And here I thought dirty tricks were more my style.”

“What can I say, I’ve been spending time with a disreputable crowd,” David says, giving him a puckish smile, glancing back to include Robin in his needling.  "Might be picking up some bad habits.“

Robin laughs, and David claps Killian on the shoulder once more before walking over to join the other man.

The two of them fall into easy conversation, but Killian pays it little mind, stepping instead to another window to stare down at that damnable tree.

The horror still haunts his thoughts.  The sight of Emma gripping a heart she’d torn from an innocent woman’s chest brings with it an old, familiar pain, but mirrored and twisted, magnified a thousandfold.  This time, the woman he loves who’s being menaced by the Dark One is the very Dark One herself.

And if they fail, if she falls… it will surely be the end of him.

There’s a knock at the door, drawing him from his dire thoughts, and Killian takes a deep breath.  If an evening of merriment might help stave off the dark urges plaguing Emma, then he will bloody well make merry with the best of them.

The tailors are back with selections to choose from.  To his surprise, it’s the young apprentice who approaches him, his arms laden with dark garments.  His mouth is tight with nerves, but he stands his ground, and Killian can’t help but approve of that.  "Milord,” he says, giving Killian a quick nod.

Behind him, he hears David make what could only be described as a genial snort, but Killian merely nods back.  "What have you got for me, lad?“

"Milord, the Lady Emma recommended an outfit for you,” he says, blinking quickly and shifting his feet.  "It hardly seemed appropriate to me, milord, but she insisted that you would find it, well… “  He looks up at Killian with tentative confusion.  "Dashing?”

Killian unfolds the bundle to gaze at the heavy leather coat, the crimson vest, and feels a smile break jaggedly across his face, less for the sartorial splendor and more for the woman who picked it out.  He can easily picture her smile, sly and knowing as it must have been.  "It’s perfect, lad,“ he says, and drops his chin in appreciation.  "Thank you.”

* * *

After Emma vanishes from the diner, after they’ve taken stock of their surroundings and decided that nothing more can be done that night, Killian makes his way to the _Jolly Roger_.

He’s spent more time in pirate garb than any living man ever has, and yet, the weight of these new clothes is unfamiliar, for all that they’re cut in a style to which he’s well accustomed.  The leather feels heavier, stiffer, less yielding, binding and restricting his movements.

Or perhaps what he’s feeling is the suffocating weight of failure, for Emma has lost herself to the darkness.

It drags at his steps, his tread leaden and heavy as he descends to his quarters.  He slowly divests himself of those garments, laying them neatly across the table, and then examines them by the light of a lantern, seeking any clue that might be found about the missing six weeks.

His flask he finds quickly, and he’s glad of it, for he knows he’ll have need of it to carry him away from the gaping chasm of despair within his chest and into the respite of sleep.  He sets it aside for now, though, for he wants a clear head for his task, and he cannot countenance waiting until morning.

But the rest of his investigations are futile, turning up nothing of note, no scrap of paper with the words of an ancient spell, no key to a magical vault whose contents might save Emma, no powder or potion or elixir of memory.  Whatever happened, he had no time to outrun this curse, no chance to warn himself of what was to come.  All he finds are bits and bobs–a handkerchief, a small pebble.

Until he runs across the secret pocket, skillfully concealed in the lining–to all but a pirate’s eyes.

He slips careful fingers inside, extracting a soft wad of cloth, and sets it down in the lantern’s light.  Gently, he unfolds the packet… and blinks at what he finds inside.

It’s a small white flower, delicately preserved, still twined about a bit of greenery.  His hand trembles above the posy.

He’s no memory of the keepsake, but he knows himself well enough to be sure that there’s only one reason, only one person for whom he would have kept such a remembrance.

Emma.

He curls his hand into a fist as the chasm yawns wide within him, then snatches up his flask and, with a will, sets about drinking himself insensate.

But in the morning, before he undertakes to find Belle, he blearily folds the flower back into the cloth, and tucks it within his jacket, close to his heart.

* * *

He notices her lingering in the doorway–of course he does–but she holds herself apart while Arthur speaks to Regina.  Even after the king leaves, nodding to Emma as he goes, she seems reluctant to enter.

But he’s crossed realms and time for this woman.  Taking a few steps is no matter at all.

“All right, Swan?” he asks softly, joining her on the landing.  Her earlier–distress–seems to have passed, and he’s loathe to rekindle it by displaying his own, but something in her quiet manner seems decidedly unquiet.

“I’m fine, I just–needed a little break,” she says, though she won’t quite meet his eyes.  Her gaze flits to the room behind him.  "Is Robin okay?“

"He’s fine, love.”  

“Good,” she says, her voice almost too low to carry.

He reaches for her hand, and she hesitates for an instant, staring down.  He keeps his hand outstretched, letting her work through whatever troubles her.  She shakes her head, as if dismissing an unpleasant thought, and grips his hand tight before easing off.

She lets him toy with her fingers for a moment, then finally looks up at him, a smile playing about her lips.  "I guess there’s no party like a Camelot party.“

"Aye,” he says, returning the smile.  Remembering their dance makes it easy to find the lightheartedness she so clearly seeks.  "Before the swordplay interrupted our evening, I was quite enjoying myself.“

"Me too,” she says, and sways closer to him.  She curls her free hand around his lapel, thumbing at the heavy seam.  "There’s the pirate I remember,“ she says, a bit of fire in her eyes, just as he’d pictured her choosing his attire.

"And here’s the princess I could never forget.”  He leans in to press a kiss to her forehead, just below her hairline.  Then he nudges his nose against her flower crown and surprises a breathy laugh from her.

“Here.”  She reaches back behind her ear and prises free one of the blooms, unfolding his hand and pressing it into his palm.  She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but if the gesture seems casual, the look on her face is nothing like.  "Just in case you do need a reminder someday–remember me like this?“

_Oh, Emma_ , he thinks, his breath stuttering in his chest.

He gathers her close, and she clings to him, arms thrown about his waist and her face buried against his neck.  There’s a trembling between them, but he truly can’t tell whether the shaking he feels is hers, or his own.

"It won’t come to that, Swan.  We’ll fix this,” he vows, though he’s already certain that, no matter what happens, the tiny blossom will never leave his possession.  

* * *

“There’s the pirate I remember,” she purrs, and any spark of memory he might have had is drowned out by the purest anguish, no longer to be held at bay.  His kiss has had no effect, leaving her unmoved and unsaved, and it’s the enormity of his failure to which he attributes the clenching of his heart.


End file.
